Knights of the Highway
by Mele
Summary: Why was Blair so reluctant to drive a big rig in Spare Parts?


**_Disclaimer:_** _The Sentinel and all its trimmings belong to Pet Fly and Paramount._

 _ **Notes, timeline, warnings:**_ _Set a few days after "Spare Parts", I guess you could say it's a sort of epilog/missing scene for that. Note: any mention of driving speed is in MILES per hour, not kilometers; the kid is slow, but not that slow. Some rough language, death of a non-canon character. If you have problems with 'death fics' or are particularly sensitive please click here for additional warning. March-April 2003._

 _ **Notes II:**_ _Since this story deals with truck driving and truck drivers, here is a very short list of some terms used that some readers may not be familiar with (and, no, I did not make these up):_

 _Lumper: Person at the receiving docks who is paid by the truck drivers to unload their trailer_

 _Lot Lizards: Hookers who work truck stops and rest areas_

 _Reefer: Refrigerated trailer._

 _Bobtail: Run the tractor only without the trailer_

 **Knights of the Highway**

 **By Mele**

The sounds coming from the kitchen were soft, but still enough to alert the Sentinel to the fact his roommate was up and about at the ungodly hour of 2:36 in the morning. Lying still, Jim listened to the various muted clicks and gurgles, imagining his younger roommate's movements as he made a cup of herbal tea. The whisper of fabric against fabric told the older man Blair had settled onto the couch rather than back in his room, a fact that worried Jim enough to impel him to don his robe and join his friend and Guide downstairs.

"Trouble sleeping, Chief?"

Sandburg looked up with an expression of mingled embarrassment and discomfort.

"Sorry, man, I didn't mean to wake you up," he replied quietly.

"Not what I asked, Blair. Is anything wrong?"

"No. Nah…just…you know. Trouble sleeping. No big deal. Want some tea?" the younger man asked, moving into the kitchen and away from his friend.

"No, Sandburg, I don't want some tea. I want some answers. Come here and sit down, tell me what's going on in that overactive brain of yours," Jim directed, indicating the nearby couch with a stern look.

"It's nothing, Jim, I'm fine. What are you doing up?" It was a last ditch effort at misdirection, and even as the words left his mouth Blair realized they wouldn't have any effect.

"Nice try, Chief, but it's not going to work. You've been moody as hell ever since your mom visited. Even before that," Ellison continued, thinking back with a frown. "Seems to have started when we were working on the carjacking case. Petrie's little operation. You didn't want to get involved, which just isn't like you. Yeah, that's when it started. What was it about that case that pushed your buttons?"

"You're reaching, man," Blair scoffed, though Jim could hear the increase in his Guide's heart rate that gave away the lie.

"Am I? Chief, you're the one who taught me to detect the signs of someone not telling the truth. You think it won't work on you? Sit back down, Sandburg!" Jim ordered as Blair surged to his feet with a glare at the older man.

"And if I don't? You gonna make me sit down?" the smaller man bristled angrily.

"Sandburg…Blair. Please. Just sit down and TALK to me. It's two-thirty in the morning, you're not sleeping - again - and I just want to know why. Something is obviously eating at you, and according to a very good source I have, an excellent way to deal with a problem is to talk about it. Sound familiar?" Jim queried.

"Now that is so not fair, man, throwing my words back at me," Sandburg grumbled even as he seated himself again with a deep sigh.

"So, start talking, Junior. What was it about that case that has you up at all hours?" Jim forced himself to relax back onto the chair, hoping to encourage his reluctant roommate to open up.

"It's nothing, really…remember when I told you I spent a summer driving for my uncle? Well, being back in a rig…driving…the sights, the sounds, the smells…brought back some memories, and not all of them good ones, you know?" Blair began hesitantly.

"Oh? You sounded like you'd enjoyed the experience, what little you said about it," Jim commented, settling back and making himself comfortable. He knew the signs, and realized that Blair was about to launch into the story with his usual flair and detail. Might as well enjoy the show, he decided.

"There were parts of it I did enjoy. A lot. Not the least of which was spending time with Harold. He wasn't really my uncle, you know; just one of Naomi's former boyfriends - one of the odder ones. Older than Mom by quite a lot, they met while Harold was laid up with a broken leg, and him resuming his driving was the end of their relationship. But he was one of the rare ones who seemed to genuinely like me, and a few years ago I ran into him at a rest area in Oregon. He said he was looking for an apprentice driver, and offered to train me for free if I was interested. Needless to say, I was…"

March 1994 - Portland, Oregon

"Congratulations, Son, you just knocked over a wall and turned the DMV office into a drive through. Good job," Harold Stearns said laconically, shaking his head at his young apprentice. "First rule to remember, Blair: if you knock over the building on the docking trial, they won't give you your license."

"Very funny, man. I thought I had it that time. What'd I do wrong?" Blair asked, climbing down from the cab of the Freightliner and walking toward the back of the trailer where his adopted 'uncle' stood studying the lines that represented the test dock at the DMV. His trailer sat well over the line on the left, much to his consternation.

"You over compensated again. Remember, you can get out and check your position as often as you need to. They can't fail you for that. You've got the driving down pat, but that won't help if you can't put her in a dock. Now climb on up there and give it another go and this time try to keep the property damage to a minimum." Despite his gruff appearance and manner, Harold was a surprisingly patient man, and he gave an encouraging pat to Blair's shoulder as the young man turned away.

His patience was rewarded four days later when Blair emerged from the Portland DMV office with a genuine commercial, Class A license in his possession. That night they had dinner at one of the better restaurants in town to celebrate, before heading out the next morning to Utah.

Harold owned a 1989 Freightliner with a reefer trailer that he kept in excellent condition. Tiring of the headaches encountered as an owner-operator arranging his own runs, he had found a solution by signing with a company as a sub-contractor. They handled all the negotiations and paid Harold a flat fee per mile, significantly higher than their company drivers made since he ran his own rig. And Harold maintained the right to turn down a run, though it was an unspoken agreement that doing so too often could lead to the end of a mutually profitable arrangement.

Stearns decided a few years before to semi-retire, and only drive from March to September; hence the need for a co-driver. To maximize his take, he needed to be able to run nearly nonstop, and having a co-driver he paid a flat salary to was the best way to achieve this. He always took on rookie drivers, who were usually agreeable to a lower rate of pay in exchange for the chance to gain experience from a career driver.

This was a valuable service, given that about half the younger drivers Harold trained ended up quitting the road after their half year. Not because of Stearns - at least, not usually - but because the seeming freedom of the road turned out to be highly stressful, lonely, and not anywhere near as romantic as country music would have one believe. But those who went on were invariably better drivers for the lessons they learned from the big man.

Blair was an unusual choice for Harold, since he knew full well the younger man had no intention to becoming a truck driver. In fact, had Blair claimed he wanted to, Stearns would have summarily kicked his ass; the boy was far too intelligent to spend his life on the road. Still, the experience would be good for the kid; he'd traveled to so many foreign lands, but hadn't spent enough time with his finger on the pulse of his own country. And as far as Harold Stearns was concerned, there was no better way to feel that pulse than on the highways and byways of the glorious U. S. of A.

But first Blair had to spend two days orientation with Sunset Riders Trucking in Provo, Utah. Though he and Harold were subcontractors, they would still be representing the company, therefore Blair had to undergo the same orientation process the company drivers did. And the anthropology student got his first glimpse of the wide range of people who populated the truck driving community.

Though the orientation group was less than twenty people, he couldn't believe the variety of backgrounds. The majority were young people like himself, most of them looking for something that paid fairly well and didn't require much in the way of training. One was a young father with two children and another on the way. He had a problem with reading, and had washed out of other jobs he'd tried; driving was nearly his last hope for being able to support his growing family. A middle-aged woman with gray streaked hair was looking for a change in life after the premature death of her husband. A mild mannered man with silver hair and well made clothing told Blair he'd been a successful engineer, earning in the six figures every year for the last ten. He just wanted a simpler life; something easy and different and not as stressful. And so it went; one fellow even admitted he was a reformed drug addict looking to avoid his creditors until he could get his life under control.

The two days passed quickly, and then they headed to Salt Lake City to pick up their first load, bound for Twin Falls, Idaho. A nice easy run for their first one, then it was off to Green Bay, Wisconsin. A far different situation.

Mid March might be spring for a lot of the country, but in North Dakota it was still very much winter. Blair awoke from his sleep shift in the back only to find Harold literally snow-plowing their way along the highway.

"What the hell?" the student muttered with a still sleepy expression. "It was clear sailing when I went to bed."

"Things change, Kid. Help yourself to some coffee, I picked up fresh when we fueled the last time. My shift ends in just under an hour and I need for you to be ready to go," Harold instructed.

"Can't we just sit out the worst of the storm?" Blair wondered, looking apprehensively at the still heavily falling snow.

"We don't have a lot of leeway on this run. We can…have to, actually…go slow. But we can't afford to stop unless the highway outright closes. Buck up, Blair. This isn't that bad. You should see it here in January," Harold grinned.

"No thank you, man. Waaayyy too cold for my tastes. And I thought it was cold and wet in Cascade!"

Forty minutes later Harold pulled the rig off into a small truck stop that was crammed with rigs. The two men went inside for a refill on their coffee and to check the possibility of arranging a later delivery for their load. While Harold called the dispatch office, Blair refilled their big thermos with fresh brewed coffee. Listening to the other truckers talking while he waited for his change, he heard various comments about how the road was pretty much solid snow and ice to the Minnesota border.

"What'd they say?" Sandburg queried as he joined Stearns near the entrance.

"They said the receiver wants this order on time; keep moving. Don't worry, Kid, we'll get it there okay. Let's get moving." He ushered the younger man out, well aware that the inexperienced driver was worried about the conditions. Well, bad road conditions were a fact of life for truck drivers; the sooner he learned that the better he'd do.

Blair eased back onto the highway, disliking the way the truck seemed to be only partially under his control. The snow was hard packed on the road, frozen and slick and dangerous. At each down slope the trailer felt like it wanted to outrace the tractor, at every up slope it felt like momentum was the only thing that kept them going. Blair eased the rig up to thirty miles an hour but couldn't bring himself to go any faster than that.

"You're the one driving, Son. You go as fast as you feel safe, and no faster. There is nothing - NOTHING - you can carry in this truck that is worth risking your life over. I'm not kidding around here, Blair. The decision is ultimately yours on this; if you don't think you can safely make it any further, get the truck off the road. Understand?" There was no humor in the older man's expression as he looked over at his young co-driver.

"Got it. If I go slow enough I think I can make it," Blair answered tightly.

Harold stayed up for a while, not talking, just watching to make sure his inexperienced driver could handle the road. He'd been going a good, solid forty-five when he'd been driving, but with thirty plus years of practice he knew his limits. He'd not berate the kid for going slow, but it was late and he was tired, so after an hour he patted Blair's near shoulder and headed back into the sleeper berth.

"Wake me if you need me," was his only comment.

The night seemed endless to Sandburg as he eased the truck along, seeing very little in the way of other traffic. He fought with himself endlessly, trying to convince himself he could go faster, only to discover his sense of control over the vehicle disintegrated when his speed hit over thirty-five.

When Harold rejoined him eight hours later he'd barely covered 250 miles, but at least he was near the Minnesota border and the weather and road conditions had improved quite a bit. Passing through the last North Dakota city the road was still wet but otherwise clear, yet Blair could only bring himself to speed up to forty five miles an hour. Any faster and he could feel himself freaking out, it just felt far too fast to be safe.

Stearns stifled a smile; he knew full well what the younger man was going through, he'd seen it enough times. Get the kid a good meal, a full night's sleep, give his nerves a chance to reset themselves and he'd be fine. As it was, Harold was damned proud that he'd driven the whole time and had not given into his fear. A lot of green drivers wouldn't have done nearly as well.

"See much traffic, Kid?" he asked in his laconic way.

"Not really. Most of it was folks flying on by me. You should have seen the last one; a delivery truck that went zooming by so fast I had to check to make sure I wasn't in reverse," Blair chuckled, happy to have company again.

"Probably a local used to the conditions. You did okay, Son. Next town up the road should be the end of your shift. We'll find us a truck stop and get a good meal, showers, then on to Green Bay. How's that sound?"

"Oh, man, that sounds fine by me. Sorry I didn't get any further along than I did…"

"Hey! You don't apologize to ANYONE for being safe, you understand me young man? You did the job, you kept us moving and you kept us safe. Can't do any more than that." Harold's tone was stern but lightened by a small smile as he regarded his companion.

"Yes sir," Blair grinned back, relaxing a bit more. "You're the boss."

"And don't you forget it."

As they headed out of the city there was a series of small hills and valleys that were wet but snow-free on the slopes with a patch of frozen snow at the base. In the first valley an older couple had gone off the road, but already a tow truck was preparing to pull them out. The second valley found a pair of teenagers in an older model Chevrolet having slid off the road and stuck in the mud. The driver held a cell phone to his ear, obviously calling for assistance.

The sight at the base of the third valley brought a slight smile to Blair's face, despite himself. It was the delivery van, which had obviously hit the ice at an incredible speed. There were deep tracks from the side of the pavement at a forty-five degree angle, going a good 100 feet into a field before abruptly turning back toward the highway. The vehicle had made it only a few feet before becoming completely stuck in mud so deep only the top of the tires could be seen. The fuming driver sat behind the wheel, glaring as the rig rumbled on past.

Harold chuckled himself as he turned to Blair with a grin. "And THAT is what happens when one doesn't drive safely. A: he's now going to be VERY late to wherever he was going," he ticked off on his thick fingers. "And, B: he's lucky he didn't roll."

Sandburg nodded in agreement as they continued on toward the promise of a warm shower and hot food.

April 1994 - Denver, Colorado

Blair and Harold walked out of the truck stop restaurant still chuckling over the stories they'd just heard. One of the things Blair was appreciating the most about the job was the sense of camaraderie he felt amongst the majority of the drivers he met. Maybe he'd just been lucky, or perhaps being with Harold helped ease the way for him, but he'd not really encountered the 'stranger in a strange land' feeling he'd experienced so many times before. And not just in strange lands. Moving around as much as they did when he was a kid, he was more than vaguely familiar with the unpleasant sensation of being the new kid on the block. But here he'd found almost instant acceptance from most of the other drivers he'd met.

The anthropologist found himself immersed in a closed society; one he had never even suspected existed. There was a definite chasm between those who were accepted into the truck drivers' world, and those who were not. It wasn't that truck drivers were unkind to those who were not part of their world; in fact truck drivers had a decent reputation for rendering aid when needed. Harold once referred to them as the 'Knights of the Highway,' always ready to rescue a damsel in distress. Or anyone else, for that matter. The majority of drivers took pride in that idea, and lived up the ideal it represented.

Not that there weren't plenty of the other kind of drivers, the ones who fancied themselves more the 'Kings of the Road,' and tried to smite any who got in their way. Blair had heard plenty of stories where the drivers had taken inordinate pride in using the size and power of their trucks to intimidate smaller vehicles off the road. It gave him a whole new appreciation for an old Steven Spielberg movie he'd seen years ago; Duel.

Fascinated by the whole situation, Blair had picked up a couple of blank notebooks and had already half filled one with his observations, figuring he could get a paper or two out of the experience along with the paychecks.

Bur for now it was Blair's shift, under a load of beer bound for Salt Lake City, Utah, and the young man pulled out on the highway with confidence. The last month had been busy as hell, but overall uneventful, and Blair was growing more self-assured by the day.

"Watch yourself, Kid. The highway around Vail and Aspen doesn't look too bad, but it's surprisingly steep and dangerous. More than one trucker has lost his life on this stretch, and we don't want to add to that number. Understand?" Harold asked.

"Gotcha."

Harold looked askance at his companion and decided to forgo his rest until they were back on more level ground. The timing had worked out so that he had been behind the wheel for the worst of their downhill travel, and he suspected Blair didn't understand just how hazardous it could be. In his opinion Sandburg was at the most dangerous time in his development as a truck driver; just confident enough to forget the most basic lessons and find himself in a world of danger, and not yet experienced enough to handle the situation.

The day was clear and cool, with perfect road conditions and just a hint of spring starting to show. The mountains were visible in all their rugged glory, and being mid week at least the traffic wasn't too bad. In short, the situation was ripe for disaster.

Blair was thoroughly enjoying the drive and the scenery; Colorado was one state he hadn't been to before, at least not that he could recall. He couldn't see what had his uncle so upset about the route; it looked to be nearly level.

"Blair, dammit, slow down now!" Harold barked angrily, seeing their speed steadily creeping up.

"I'm not going that fast," Sandburg countered, though he did apply the brakes and start to downshift. Surprised at the amount of pressure he had to apply to slow them down, he was just rattled enough to miss his downshift.

"Grab a gear and keep it!" Harold snapped out, bracing himself instinctively as he realized they were going to be taking the grade far faster than he wanted to.

Obediently Blair finally got the truck to settle into seventh, which was at least two gears higher than he wanted. The load had their weight up to maximum, and it seemed the grade was growing even steeper despite appearances to the contrary. He threw the jake brakes, disregarding the signs prohibiting their use; if the residents of the city didn't like the rattling sound of jake brakes, they'd sure as hell hate the sound of the rig crashing.

"Keep steady pressure on the brakes, and concentrate on your steering. Forget shifting, don't look at your speed, just concentrate on keeping us on the road. In a few miles the grade levels for a bit, you should be able to stop then," Harold instructed tersely, keeping his tone as even as possible, knowing that upsetting the younger man any further could only make things worse.

"What if I pull the parking brakes on the trailer?"

"That's the last resort, Kid. We do that and the bulk of our load will end up broken, and the damage to the rig could be serious. First we try to ride it out," Harold stated firmly. "You steer, I'll keep an eye on the speed and decide if we need to use them."

The next few minutes lasted a seeming eternity as Blair literally stood on the brake pedal and wove his way through the thankfully sparse traffic. Other trucks, seeing the smoke coming from the brakes and the speed of the vehicle, wisely made room for them to pass easily. Finally the road leveled enough to Blair to bring it to a stop safely off the shoulder. He grabbed the fire extinguisher and leapt from the cab.

"They're not on fire, thankfully, just hotter than hell," Harold pronounced as they met at the back of the truck. Blair let out a gusty sigh and leaned against the back of the truck weakly.

He looked up into the face of the older man and realized he was in a world of trouble as his gaze met the smoldering brown eyes. What followed was a tongue-lashing to beat all tongue-lashings, as Stearns loomed over the smaller man and let him have it with both barrels. Other truckers passing, who had seen the barely controlled rig fly by them earlier, smiled to themselves, remembering times they'd been on one side or the other of that situation.

And they smiled because they knew a tongue-lashing was the best possible outcome of a runaway truck.

It was an hour before Harold decided the brakes were cool enough to continue. He turned to Blair, who'd taken a seat on a nearby rock and stared at the distant mountains for most of that time, and jerked a thumb over his shoulder.

"Do an inspection, especially on the brakes, then let's get moving."

Stearns remained silent for the rest of the drive out of the mountains, not commenting on the extremely slow pace Blair was setting. He knew the kid's nerves had taken a hit, and wisely allowed the younger man to begin working it through for himself.

"Scariest thing ever happened to me as a driver, happened in some small town in Maine, of all places," he said, breaking the increasingly uncomfortable silence at last. Seeing Blair glance over at him cautiously, he continued conversationally.

"Can't remember the road I was on, or even the name of the damned town, but I can still see it in my mind's eye, clear as if it happened yesterday. It was one of those winding, two lane roads, going through a rural area with big, comfortable homes sitting well off the street. The area was hilly, it was mid February, and a good foot and a half of snow covered everything. The road had been plowed, but was still pretty well covered with icy, hard-packed snow, as were most of the driveways that sloped up or down, depending on the terrain."

"I was going a cautious thirty five, it was mid afternoon on a weekday, so traffic wasn't too bad. Suddenly, seemingly out of nowhere, I see this flash of red off to the right. It's a kid on a sled, coming down a steep, ice coated driveway, and I realized in an instant there was nothing at all to keep him from shooting right out onto the highway. And there was nothing at all in this world I could do to stop the truck. It was over in less than a heartbeat, and I'm telling you, it took all my courage to look into the rear view mirror."

Harold paused for a moment, apparently lost in his memory.

"What…?" Blair couldn't quite bring himself to ask the question.

"The kid shot right under the trailer, ended up in the neighbor's front yard. Untouched. Perfectly fine."

"Oh, man," Sandburg sighed, sinking back into his seat with the unconscious release of tension.

"I found a spot to pull off the road, and proceeded to have a total breakdown. I have never before…or since…been as scared as I was when I realized I was going to hit that child. And I've never been as relieved as when I saw that brat stand up from his sled and shake his little fist at me," the older man laughed shakily. "And I still remember how hard it was to start that truck back up and continue that run."

Blair turned toward him again with a rueful smile of his own.

"I think I get what you're telling me here," he said.

"Mostly what I'm trying to tell you Son, is that there are enough bad things that will happen that you get no say in, no control over. So you have to make damned sure you do everything you can to avoid problems that can be prevented. You learned a valuable lesson today about listening to those who have experience and knowledge, yes?"

"Yes, Sir," he replied respectfully.

"Then I'm thinking we need not say any more about it. Learn and go on, that's all you can do. However, I will say this: if you DO make that mistake again, I'll ship you back to Cascade on the next bus, and you'll be sitting on a bruise that clearly matches the tread on these size eleven boots, understand?" Though he smiled, there was a glint of steel in his eyes that couldn't be mistaken for anything except what it was; a promise to do exactly what he said he'd do.

"Yes, Sir!"

May 1994 - Auburn, Washington

The last two days had been rough, as they had rushed to finish a run from New York with a frozen load bound for Seattle. Two days out Blair had noticed the temperature in the reefer was higher than the paperwork specified. Harold had spent three hours futzing around with the unit, finally getting it running; granted it was jerry-rigged six ways from Sunday, as he so colorfully put it. Additionally, every time it tried to cycle into the defrost function it locked up again, requiring more work to get it running once more.

As it turned out, they were twelve hours late with the order, to a receiver who docked the freight payment $75.00 for late delivery. A fee that would come out of Harold's pay, as it was his trailer that malfunctioned; it was part of his contract that he had to keep his equipment in good repair.

To say the older man was irritated with the situation was putting it mildly, as he dropped off the trailer for repairs and was informed it would take two days to get the needed parts and install them. At least the town had a good truck stop, so they bobtailed over and by mid-afternoon they'd laid claim to a prime parking spot and settled in for their unexpected mini-vacation.

"Well, no use getting all worked up about something can't be helped, I guess," Harold grumbled that evening over dinner. "Reckon we can use the chance to let our log books catch up anyway, eh?" he grinned conspiratorially.

That was one of the things that had surprised Blair. When he was learning the laws and getting ready for his Class A tests, Harold had drilled into him the rules and regulations concerning keeping an honest and accurate logbook. But once Blair was licensed and they were working, he did a complete turnabout and taught the younger man any number of tricks for 'maximizing' his hours on the logbook. The only thing he would absolutely not allow was keeping more than one logbook, as one veteran driver put it: 'if you can't cheat good enough for one book, two books ain't going to help.'

The truck stop was small, but very popular, and filled up quickly as night approached and the temperatures fell with the sun. Drivers gathered in groups around the parked rigs, laughter and cigarette smoke permeating the air.

Two black rigs decorated with the distinctive skunks that all Dick Simon trucks sported flanked Harold's bright red tractor. The driver on the left was a young man who already had both muscular forearms well covered with tattoos, while on the right was a older man still hacking with the remnants of a bad case of the flu. Harold had brightened up completely when he saw that particular neighbor.

"Casey, haven't you smartened up and quit yet?" he greeted the weary looking man with a grin and extended hand.

"Well, hell, Harold, reckon I'm just as stupid as you are," Casey Parker croaked out.

"You sound like death warmed over. What laid you low this time?"

"Aw, damned stomach flu. Lucky the kid I'm training didn't come down with it. As it was, he has friends in Seattle who were happy enough to come take him away for a few days. Nothing worse than being sick and having some bored youngster hanging around."

"I know what you mean. Speaking of kids, this here is Blair Sandburg," Harold introduced Blair casually, though Casey caught the gleam of affection in the older driver's eyes.

"Nice to meet you, Kid. Anyone who can put up with Harold here must be okay."

Blair smiled widely as he shook the other man's hand. "He's not that bad. You know, if I could find a health food store I could pick up some herbal teas that would knock that cough you have right back," he offered.

"I got some Chamomile a couple of days ago, and Sandy in the café there gives me as much honey as I need. But thanks, it's not every day I meet another driver who knows anything about herbal remedies," Casey noted, quickly falling into a more detailed conversation with the younger man.

Before long a small group had gathered and conversation turned to more general matters.

"Hey, you met our lot lizard yet?" Ben, the young man from the other Dick Simon rig asked with a grin.

"We got one working here now? I'll keep an eye out for her. And you, Sir Galahad," he frowned, eyeing Blair sternly and shaking a warning finger in his direction. "You will keep your money - and all your body parts - away from her. What's her story?" he asked Casey.

"Earning money for a motel room for her kids, or so she claims. Offers to wash your windows, then maybe offers you a 'date'. Asked me if I had a co driver when I turned her down. At least she's not aggressive, just rather pathetic," Parker noted.

"Aren't they all?" Stearns countered wearily.

"Heh, remember last year, when I had my grandson along?" Casey asked abruptly with a grin.

"Sure. Cute little guy of…what?…six?"

"Seven. Yeah, he's a corker, that kid is. Problem was, I kept forgetting he was around, you know? I'd get to jawing, and he'd hear something he shouldn't. Anyway, we're sitting in restaurant, eating our dinner, and he just looks over at me with those big, blue eyes and says 'Grandpa, what's a lot lizard?' Innocent as you please. Now, I can't tell the kid the truth, obviously. I can just imagine what my daughter would say if I tried explaining what a hooker is to her seven-year-old. So I take the coward's way out and tell him that they're lizards you find in some truck stops, and that truckers like to catch them for good luck. Seemed an innocent enough idea, right?"

Grins and nods all around.

Casey was settling into his tale with the ease of a natural storyteller. "Even made him a noose to catch one with. After that, every truck stop we had to go look for lot lizards. Must have made quite a sight, the two of us prowling around the perimeters of truck stops, looking under all the rigs. Little guy's whole ambition for the summer was to catch me a lot lizard to keep me safe, and damn if he didn't just have to tell everyone we met about it, too. Thank God the other drivers seemed to understand and none of them felt the need to enlighten him. So, I get the little guy back home, no problems, and figured I got off the hook on that one. Until he goes to school. First day of class, the teacher calls on each kid to tell what they did over the previous summer."

Casey paused, shaking his head in bemusement as the grins around him grew.

"So up pipes my beloved grandson, announcing to the entire first grade class: 'I spent my summer driving around the country with my Grandpa in his truck looking for lot lizards.' Thank heavens the kids didn't know what that meant. Unfortunately, his teacher did. Whew…took three months before my daughter would even speak to me again."

Laughter rang out, warm and friendly in the moist night air.

June 1994 – Los Angeles, California

"I've got a theory as to why the drivers here in LA tend to be more polite than in other places," Harold noted with one of his trademark grins as they moved along a nearly deserted freeway. Typical of the freeway system in Southern California, they went through pockets of heavy traffic interspersed with areas that were nearly deserted save for the other big trucks rumbling through the city.

"Oh? And that theory would be?" Blair grinned back, knowing he was about to be treated once again to one of Harold's uniquely logical theories.

"Well, these freeways here have been the site of more than a few shootings, where drivers went temporarily insane and started popping off rounds in frustration. And I figure folks down here are just cautious enough…or is it neurotic enough?…to be afraid to tick off anyone on the road, just in case they decide to shoot them rather than the more peaceable flipping them the finger."

Blair chuckled in agreement and settled back comfortably in his seat. They'd just changed shifts and he was enjoying a little down time before trying to get some sleep.

"I guess I can see the logic in that, but there must be easier ways to teach the population at large to be more polite."

"Easier, maybe, but not more effective," Stearns grunted, obviously distracted by something behind him. Reaching over, he turned up the CB radio in time to hear some drivers discussing a car that was apparently not driving safely.

"Whoa, watch out Wal-Mart, he's coming up fast on your right…damn fool idiot!" came a surprisingly boyish voice over the radio.

"I see him…Damn!…nearly took off my front fender. What the hell is up with that?" came a rough voice in reply.

"Shit! He's overshot his lane…watch it, it clipped that van! Damn, we've got a mess here…" the young voice was back, sounding higher than ever. "Hey, anyone up ahead, watch for the black Trans Am, he's just caused a four vehicle wreck back here."

Blair turned toward Harold with wide eyes. "Is he coming up behind us?"

"He sure is. Time to see if we can't do something," he reached for the CB only to have a booming voice sound before he could speak. "Hey, Red, Rainbow and Tex Tanker, this is the hay hauler in front of Red. Wanna try to corral this idiot before anyone else gets killed?"

Harold grinned over to Blair then answered the call. "This is Red, I'm in."

Affirmatives came from the truck with a distinctive rainbow logo and a fuel hauler just behind him.

"Alright, then. Red, you come up on my left, then Tex, and Rainbow, you take the outside. A flying wedge, gentlemen…we catch him, then we stop him…"

Harold moved easily into position, running just slightly ahead of the hay truck and the tanker, both of which were hauling two trailers. Their front bumpers nearly were even with the front of Harold's trailer, while the other truck ran just a bit less than even with the second trailer on the fuel truck.

The car, whose driver was obviously high, or just plain stupid, did exactly what they wanted him to do, he ran up on Harold's trailer, as if to force him to drive more quickly. He didn't notice that as soon as he was between the other two trucks, the fourth one dropped back, and then plugged the rear, preventing escape. They had the car trapped between them with no way to get out.

"Okay, gents, we're going to bring it to a stop," Harold announced as he saw the flashing lights of approaching police cars. "Rainbow, you let us know if that idiot pulls a gun, right? And if he does, for Christ's sakes, get out of there. And please tell me you're not hauling explosives," he asked the tanker.

"Hell no. Cooking oil. Non-toxic and slippery as hell. Would serve him right if he shot a hole in it," came the amused answer.

"I don't see any sign of a weapon, but he is surely pissed off," was the report from the rear truck, as they came to a full stop with police cars in front and back. "Guess we should all stay put and let the cops handle it, huh?"

It was over in a less than a minute, ending with the driver being taken away in cuffs. The officers indicated the trucks were all to stop on the shoulder, while another officer drove the suspect's car to a safe location.

The four drivers met at the front of the hay truck, grinning happily.

"You did good, Red," said the lanky, jeans-clad driver, extending a hand to Harold. "The name's Basil Wentworth," he added.

"Good to meet you, I'm Harold, and this is my trainee, Blair," Stearns introduced them as the other two drivers strode up.

"Mason Alvarez," said the erstwhile 'Rainbow', while the bearded giant from the tanker chipped in with his own introduction.

"Jerry Rogers."

It took a half hour to get all the statements taken, during which time the drivers found out that their captive blew a .21 on the Breathalyzer and was responsible for a total of nine injuries, one of which was critical. The good humor faded in the face of the devastation one drunk driver could cause.

"Look, you guys did a great job, you kept him from hurting anyone else. If you hadn't stopped him, who knows how much damage he could have done," the officer in charge commented. "I know you've all probably got schedules to keep, so you can go now. But for the record, I'm going to be contacting your companies and letting them know what you did here today. You should be proud," he concluded.

July 1994 – American Falls, Idaho

Blair grinned as he hurried up the steps into the receiving office; it was a beautiful day in a beautiful state, they were two hours early with the shipment, and best yet, Naomi had met them in Boise the day before for a wonderful day visit that had, as usual, raised Blair's spirits. Harold was resting in the sleeper berth, but by now Blair was an old hand at handling the paperwork and putting the truck neatly in the dock.

Told where to go and whom to meet, Sandburg took the rig around back and parked it perfectly on his first try. Smiling, he went in the facility to meet the person who would be unloading this shipment.

Unlike most facilities they delivered to, this one insisted on their own employees unloading the trucks, instead of the free-lance lumpers found most places. Standing near his dock, he waited and thought back to a load he'd picked up in San Diego, the week before.

It had been early in the morning, and the place they were picking up from was a small meat packing plant that was nearly impossible to dock at. Once they got the truck positioned, the only lumper available was a small, weathered man who appeared to be around sixty years old. The old man negotiated his price and set to work slowly but steadily, chatting with Blair who insisted on helping.

Frank, as he introduced himself, had worked on various docks like that for all of his adult life; eking a bare existence during the slow times, and putting as much away during busy season as he could, to help ease the hard times.

"My boys, they say this is not good work, that it is beneath them. They have all these plans to live good, they say. Jobs that don't make you get up before the sun, jobs with DIGNITY, they say. But I don't know where these jobs are; they can't seem to find them as easy as they say they can. Guess these jobs, they're supposed to come seeking my boys out, instead of the other way 'round. So they sleep in, they eat our food, and sometimes they come down and help, if the mood suits them. But they scoff at the work, even as they do it," he explained with a remarkable lack of bitterness.

"Maybe you should...ah…give them the chance to prove they can make it on their own," Blair suggested tactfully.

The old man wheezed out laughter as he lifted another crate of meat by-product. "Bless you, boy, I'd love to. But my wife, she says they're just babies yet, won't hear of it. Me, I say, let them learn that any honest job is an honorable job, is a job with dignity."

"That's very true," Sandburg agreed.

"So what if I'm never going to be the president of some big mucky-muck company, never going to drive a shiny limousine? I own my own home, and I owe no man for anything. I raised my family and the government never had to do that for me. I pay my taxes, I vote, I go to church and thank God for all those blessings. Not bad for a man who does a job with no dignity, eh?"

"Not bad for any man, anywhere," Blair countered sincerely.

"Huh, try telling THAT to my sons."

"You the one dropping off the load of French Fries?" The voice from behind him startled Blair from his thoughts. He turned to find a dark haired youth neatly dressed in a red uniform with the name "Jason" stenciled on one shoulder.

"Yeah, that's me," Blair stammered, handing over his paperwork hastily. "Caught me daydreaming."

"I hear you, man. When I'm between unloading I stand here and take in the sights myself," Jason commented, indicating the open dock next to the one where Harold's truck was parked. It provided a perfect view of the ruggedly beautiful countryside.

Sandburg grinned appreciatively. "Quite a view your 'office' has, I'll admit."

"Yeah, but all that's going to change come September."

"Oh? How so?"

"I've been accepted to the university in Boise," he announced with obvious pride.

"Oh, hey, that's great! Congratulations! What are you going to study?" Blair asked enthusiastically.

"Psychology, with a minor in French."

"Whoa, serious studying ahead!" Sandburg laughed.

"Fine by me," Jason commented, starting to move out pallets of frozen food from the trailer. "You think I want to do this forever? No way. Nothing wrong with manual labor, but it's not how I want to spend the next thirty, forty years. My dad worked in a factory all his life, and died when I was twelve. But I remember him always telling me I could do more, and now is my chance." There was quiet pride and determination in the young man's voice, as he continued to work steadily even while he talked.

"Something tells me you're definitely on the road for success. I hope it all works out for you," Blair said, shaking Jason's hand before pulling the door down on the back of the now empty trailer.

"Thanks. And you know, it's not too late for you to do something more than just driving a truck."

August 1994 - Oklahoma City, Oklahoma

Harold was almost bursting with anticipation as he hurried Blair back toward the truck stop. They'd already showered, and dressed in the best clothes they had with them, stopping just short of putting ties on. The big man's unruly gray hair was slicked down neatly, and he'd less than gently suggested Blair tie his long curls back.

The grad student had to grin as he hurried to keep up with his companion; the man acted like he was meeting royalty, not his own daughter. Though, upon reflection Blair could see how it was a rare treat for the career driver. His marriage had failed early on, leaving his wife to raise their two daughters without much input from their father. Though he kept in touch with the girls as well as he could, the lifestyle he'd chosen didn't allow for much chance to be a stay-at-home kind of dad. Now both his daughters were grown women, the elder one living in Colorado and teaching school, the younger one in college here in Oklahoma City.

Candace was studying business in between competing in beauty contests, including twice competing in the Miss America Pageant, making it to the finals the second time. Harold kept a picture of her, and her sister, on the dash of his truck, showing the girls off to the other drivers with justifiable pride.

The truck stop was late night quiet - it being just before one in the morning, local time - and Harold stopped Blair before they entered the nearly deserted restaurant.

"You just remember to mind your manners, young man. This is my daughter we're meeting," he warned Sandburg, not altogether teasingly.

"Got it, man. You don't have to worry," Blair assured him, smiling at the hostess who greeted them.

Harold had already looked around the large room, and turned to the middle-aged woman with a distracted nod. "We need a table for four, please. We have someone meeting us," he instructed.

Ten minutes later a young couple walked in, the woman's face lighting up when she spied Harold.

"Daddy!"

She smiled radiantly and flew into her father's waiting arms as her companion grinned a little uncomfortably at Blair.

"She's a little excited," he said with a rueful look at Candace and her father, who were still embracing. "I'm Ted Yeager," he added, holding out a hand to shake.

"Blair Sandburg. And she's not the only one," he smirked back, shaking the other man's hand firmly. "Harold's not talked about anything else for the last two days."

"Nice to meet you," Ted began, only to be interrupted by Candace.

"I'm sorry, I'm Candace, and you must be Blair. It's nice to meet you," she said, pumping his hand energetically before pulling him in for a spontaneous hug.

"It's good to meet you, too," he chuckled, a bit nonplussed by her energy and beauty.

Even in the wee hours of the morning, with no makeup, her long hair tied back in a simple ponytail, and dressed in ratty jeans and an oversized sweatshirt; Candace Stearns was a stunningly beautiful young woman. But even more attractive was the friendly spark in those blue eyes and the complete lack of pretension in her behavior.

"I'm so glad you called and let me know you'd be here!" she enthused, giving her dad another quick hug before they all slid into the corner booth they'd been given. "I've missed you, and there's so much to tell!"

Soon father and daughter were engrossed in conversation revolving around their lives for the past few months, as well as other family news, leaving the two younger men to fend for themselves. Much to Blair's relief, Ted was as friendly as Candace, and they passed the time in congenial conversation about the pros and cons of attempting a double major.

Two hours flew by, and even the joy of visiting her father couldn't stop Candace's yawns, much as she tried to stifle them.

"I'm sorry, you don't have to go yet! I can sleep in tomorrow," she pleaded as Harold waved over the waitress and pulled out his wallet to pay for the meal.

"And miss class? I don't think so, young lady. But don't worry, I'll be back through before I'm done for the winter. Better yet, I'm thinking of coming on over for a good long visit, say around Thanksgiving?" he suggested.

"Perfect! Ted's family has already invited me to dinner with them, you could join us, please? They've said how much they want to meet you."

"Wait a minute…is there something going on here I should know about?" Harold asked suspiciously.

"Hmmm…maybe. We've been talking about it, but nothing definite yet," his daughter demurred.

"Well, then I say count me in for certain at Thanksgiving, and you and I will be having a nice long chat, young man," he said to the suddenly discomfited Ted.

"Yes, Sir."

Another long hug and promises to be safe, then Candace and Ted exited the front of the truck stop, where the regular vehicles parked, and Harold and Blair went out the back toward their rig.

"Candace is a wonderful girl," Blair commented as they strolled along.

"That she is. Not quite as steady as her sister Bonnie, but a good girl. My ex did a fine job with them," he admitted wistfully.

"I'm betting you had a lot more influence than you realize," Blair argued gently. "If it won't offend you if I say so; I wish I'd had a dad like you."

"Now, that is the nicest thing anyone's said to me," Harold replied, looking pleased beyond measure at the young man's words. "God knows, I'd be proud to have a son like you."

It was Blair's turn to blush, and when the two men caught each other's eye, they both burst out in laughter that was equal measures discomfort and pleasure.

"Good God, it's obviously way too early in the morning for both of us," Stearns decided at last as he climbed behind the wheel.

"Yeah, must be it," Blair agreed, understanding exactly what the older man was trying to say without saying it. A peace fell over his spirit as he settled back in his seat, pleased with the world at large and Harold in particular.

September 1994 - Oregon

Nighttime in the mountains of Oregon could be a wondrous sight, and this fall evening, with a full moon illuminating a clear sky, it was especially spectacular. Blair's time with Harold was drawing near an end; the new semester would be starting the next week in Cascade, so the younger man was loath to miss any time for something as trivial as sleep.

The silence was comfortable between the two men, interrupted only occasionally by the voices over the CB; other drivers passing anonymously under cover of darkness.

"…yeah, I come this way every few months," an unnamed voice announced, static indicating his distance.

"Pretty enough country, if you like trees and mountains, I guess," was the reply, softened by a twang that even static couldn't disguise.

"Hills play hell on the engine, though," the first voice replied. "Overheated 'round here a few years back."

"Bet you had a long wait for rescue, not exactly a lot of towns around."

"Who waits for rescue? Hell, I saved myself, found a stream. All I needed was some water to refill the radiator."

"And how did you get the water from the stream to your truck?" the second driver asked, clearer and stronger now.

"Not a problem, used my toolbox as a water bucket."

"That worked okay, huh?"

Two rigs traveling the opposite direction rumbled past, their voices and conversation starting to fade as the front rig crested the next hill.

"Sure. Would have worked better if I'd taken the tools out first, though…" The voices faded away, leaving Harold and Blair chuckling.

"Is it just me, or does that story have the feel of having been told often?" Blair asked with a grin.

"It's not just you. But I'd bet my bottom dollar that it's true, nevertheless," the older man agreed with a snort of laughter. "And, not to sound all parent-like or anything, but shouldn't you be getting some shut-eye? You are driving tomorrow," he pointed out.

"Yeah, but you said we'd be in the dock for at least three or four hours, and I figured I'd sleep then. It's gotten easy to sleep while being loaded. Uh…that didn't sound right, did it?" Sandburg snickered.

"Not exactly something you'd want to say around your mom, no," Stearns agreed.

"Anyway, I'll go back in a little while, it's just so beautiful tonight, I wanted to enjoy it as long as I could."

"Yeah, God did a fine bit of work up here, I have to agree."

The sight that greeted them as they topped the next rise cut off any other comment he might have been inclined to make. A rig had gone off the road, rolled at least once, and settled on the rock-covered grade. The twisted bulk of the trailer had split, spilling boxes and broken pallets like toys discarded by a giant child. One truck, traveling in the opposite direction, had already stopped and the driver could be seen placing flares on the roadway, moving like a black ghost in the glare of his headlights. Dust was still settling, the accident had happened so recently.

Without a word Harold pulled over just behind where the other truck went off the road, and both men leapt down and hurried over, Harold having paused long enough to grab his own flares and an emergency flashlight.

"Here, put these out starting well back from the rear of our truck," Stearns directed, handing Blair a half dozen flares. The student didn't argue, but raced back to place the safety devices as ordered.

After placing the sixth flare, Sandburg hurried back toward the wreckage in time to see Harold walking across the road with a small figure held close to his chest. The other driver - a burly, dark-skinned man with long dreadlocks - was carefully helping a smaller male to follow Harold's lead. No other traffic had come by yet.

"Is that everyone?" Blair asked, hurrying up just as both victims were carefully settled on the far shoulder of the road.

"No…Beth…Sarah…they were in back," the injured driver gasped out, his attention wavering between the little boy at his side and the wreckage. "Josh, are you okay?"

The boy appeared to be no more than six, with a tendril of blood, shockingly red against his pale skin, seeping from a wound on his forehead. The blue eyes were glazed and unfocused as the youngster turned toward his father's voice.

"Daddy? Where's Mommy?"

"I'm here, it's okay, Buddy, it's okay…" Taking his child into his arms the young driver turned anxious eyes to his rescuers, only to find two of them were already back at the mangled remains of his cab.

"I think I could squeeze through there and reach the sleeper berth," Blair said, contemplating the crushed tractor critically. "There's not a lot of room, but if I take off my jacket I should be able to make it."

"Blair, I'm not sure that's a good idea, you don't know what you'll find in there," Harold began, torn between the desire to possibly help the other victims and the need to protect his young friend. He knew the grad student had no up close and personal experience with death, and the older man realized that what Blair might find in the back of the cab could be very bad indeed.

"I can't stand here and do nothing!" Sandburg exclaimed, taking off his jacket and tossing it to the side.

"At least take this," Harold said, holding out a penlight he carried in his pocket. "And dammit, be careful."

"I will be."

Moving slowly and cautiously, Blair managed to slither into the destroyed sleeper berth, finding a distressing jumble of clothing, glass, toys and other unidentifiable debris; all of it rendered otherworldly in the uncertain beam of the penlight. Pushing aside his fear and worry, Blair concentrated on the task at hand. The flash of a ring on a pale hand located the trucker's wife, and Sandburg reached out a cautious two fingers to check for a pulse.

Reassured by the steady - if slow - beat, he maneuvered some of the wreckage off of her, locating a deep cut on one slender arm that was gushing blood at an alarming rate. Grabbing a random piece of clothing, he fashioned a makeshift pressure bandage, then continued to uncover her as much as possible.

Shifting what appeared to be a suitcase out of the way, the young man gasped as he spied the infant still cradled in the unconscious woman's arms. Unthinking, he reached out and carefully lifted the tiny child, pulling her close to his chest, alarmed at how cold she was. Spotting a thick piece of material that looked to be a jacket of some sort, he wrapped it gently around the precious bundle in his arms, leaving only the unmarked, peaceful face exposed. Using his free arm, he pulled a blanket loose and tucked it around the injured woman as well, realizing she was probably in shock.

"Is the ambulance here yet?" he asked Harold, rocking the infant in his arms as he plotted how he could climb out with her in his arms.

"Not yet. How're they doing?"

"The woman has a bad cut, she's bled a lot, and could be in shock. There are probably other injuries that I can't see in here; she's unconscious. I've got the baby, too, no visible injuries, she's still sleeping. Oh, do I hear the sirens? I'm coming out," he announced, twisting around so he was coming out feet first, pulling the infant after him.

Once free of the front window, Harold helped him to stand, the dread that had been eating at the older man fully realized when he got a look at the child in Blair's arms.

"Son, give the baby to me, okay?" he asked gently, reaching out to take the small bundle from the younger man.

"No, you'll just upset her. She's being so good, I don't want to upset her now," Blair argued, carefully rearranging the jacket around the tiny figure. The ambulances had arrived, as well as several passing vehicles having stopped, but for Blair there was only Harold and the baby he held.

"Blair…Blair…look at me. Please, Son, look at me," the big man pleaded, grateful when the confused blue eyes of the young man met his own damp gaze. "Blair, the baby is dead. She was probably dead as soon as the accident happened. You have to give her to me now, and these guys here, they'll take care of her. You did good, Son, you tried, and that's all anyone can ask," the gruff voice broke as tears welled in Blair's too expressive eyes.

"Dead? But I thought…she was quiet, but I thought…she was…just…sleeping. She's not sleeping?" he asked, gazing down at the tiny face in puzzlement. A kind faced older man in the uniform of a paramedic approached, reaching for the child. With a watery sigh, Blair passed the tiny body over to the official, his hand pausing to rest on the jacket swathed chest. "Dead?" he whispered.

Harold put a protective arm around the younger man and led him gently away from the wreckage, away from the flashing lights, away from the curious eyes. In the relative peace behind their own truck Stearns shifted his hold to a comforting hug as sobs began to shake the smaller body…

Present day, Cascade Washington

"I'm sorry, Chief," Jim said quietly as Blair concluded his story and wiped his eyes tiredly. "I had no idea."

"I know, Jim. Anyway, Harold dropped me off two days later, and I haven't been in a big rig since then. Every time I even thought about it, I'd think of that baby…she was so perfect, so tiny. I mean…I know the baby's death had nothing to do with me being a truck driver. I even understand why she was in that truck…but I guess it's forever mixed up in my subconscious; driving a truck means the death of a child. It's not logical, and intellectually I know that's not true….but tell that to my guts. And when I had to drive last week…" Blair sighed and leaned back in his seat, tilting his head back and running both hands over his face.

"You say you understand why the baby was there? I don't. What would possess a man to take an infant in a big rig?" Jim asked.

"Love. Truck drivers, they don't get a lot of 'home time', you know? So, when it's possible, they take their families along, at least for some runs. I found out later that driver lived in Idaho; a run to Oregon was almost like a vacation to them. Yeah, it's risky, but so is driving the kids to the store to get bread and milk," Blair countered, a little emphatically.

"I see your point, but it seems to me that if a person wants a family, that's not the lifestyle they should choose. Did the woman survive?" the detective wondered, his natural inclination to know all the details coming to the fore.

"Yeah, she did. And Harold found out that the infant had died instantly of a broken neck; he told me because he didn't want me thinking it was my fault. But, you know, it just didn't help," Blair commented.

"Never does," Jim agreed sadly.

"Guess you know about that, huh? Anyway, sorry for wussing out on you, I haven't had any dreams about that in a long time; it kind of caught me by surprise. Probably didn't help that Naomi got so mixed up in everything."

"Sandburg, you didn't 'wuss out;' you went through a traumatic experience, and it came back and bit you on the ass. Happens to all of us, nothing to apologize for," Ellison countered firmly.

Blair just shrugged and looked toward the balcony windows; it was doubtful anything would convince him he'd not acted cowardly in dealing with the situation. Ellison watched with concern, wishing he could do something to help, but realizing his young friend would have to work it through on his own. Well, at least he could try distracting his Guide a little.

"You ever hear from Harold?" he asked.

The misdirection worked well, Blair's face lighted up with a grin as he answered. "Yeah, I get a card every Christmas and every Saint Patrick's Day. Don't ask why then, but I always get some weird little card from somewhere in the country in March."

"Saint Patrick's Day? He's Irish?"

"Jim, he's about as Irish as I am. No, I think he's just teasing me a little, he's the kind of man who can't let a good joke go," Blair said thoughtfully.

"Teasing you about what?" Jim wondered, intrigued by the hint of a blush coloring his roommate's face.

"When I was with him, he and some of his buddies decided I needed a CB handle; you know, just to make me official and all. Anyway, that was on Saint Patrick's Day, so maybe that's why he always notes that particular day," Sandburg explained, hoping his Sentinel would let the subject drop.

"I see," the big man drawled with a grin. "And just what was your CB handle, Chief?"

Blair muttered something too low for even Sentinel ears to hear.

"What was that, good buddy? Speak up."

The grad student heaved a long-suffering sigh and looked his friend in the eye, daring him to comment.

"Leprechaun, okay? My handle was Leprechaun."

Ellison gave a manly effort to trying to suppress his mirth, but failed utterly, choking on his laughter until Blair was helpless to do anything but join him. The remnants of the depression he'd been caught up in crumbled under the weight of laughter, friendship and acceptance, and the tightness in his chest and spirit dissipated.

Feeling better than he had in a week, the younger man turned to his friend to thank him, only to find the big detective grinning at him in a most disconcerting manner.

"Leprechaun? Oh, boy, are you in for it now," Ellison chortled, rubbing his hands together. "Get you a bright green suit, pointy toed boots and an appropriate hat and you can be the mascot for our baseball team. Hell, maybe we can even make some extra money renting you out to the Jags," he mused, ignoring his partner's outraged expression.

"You wouldn't dare!" Sandburg hissed, his attempt at anger foiled by the laughter in his eyes.

"And just wait until the Saint Patrick's Day Dance," Ellison continued, smirking outright now. "You'll be the centerpiece of the whole theme, maybe handing out fake gold pieces to award the best dancers. Oh, we could have you arrive like Peter Pan, flying in from the rafters…"

"Jiiiimmmmmmm…."

The end

 _ **Author's Notes:** The stories above are all true, taken from my own experiences as a long haul truck driver or from stories I was told by other drivers. The accident described in the last section was based on an accident that occurred near the end of my driving 'career' (I only lasted 6 months), and fortunately I did NOT witness it. But one of our company drivers lost his infant daughter in a wreck that also injured his wife and young son. The people in this story are also real, most of them with their names changed to protect the innocent. (Okay, okay…their names are changed because I can't remember them.) Harold Stearns does indeed exist; he was the man who taught me to drive. The Harold in the story is a combination of the real Harold, and Jim, the trainer I had with Dick Simon Trucking (and his daughter was in fact a Miss America participant and a very sweet young woman). Two good men who taught me a lot._

 _While I did not like being a truck driver – I think it would be safe to say I hated it – I left that job with a lasting respect and admiration for those who do drive for a living. Harold once posed the challenge to the class: "Go home tonight and look around your home and try to find something that has NOT traveled by truck at some point." I can't find anything in my home, except possibly my dog. G He commented that if the truckers in the country ever actually got together and STOPPED working, for just 24 hours, they could bring the country to its knees. Sounds incredible, but I do believe it's true. And no, I'm not saying truckers are saints-boy am I NOT saying that. But they do provide an incredibly valuable service, while living a difficult and often lonely lifestyle that includes a remarkable amount of abuse by those who think trucks are just out there to make their driving lives miserable. Just food for thought next time you see one rumbling by._

 _However, it IS a definite closed society, and the only aspect I regretted leaving was being part of that 'fraternity.' I can definitely see how an anthropologist would find it interesting._


End file.
